I Prefer to Text
by sherlocked98
Summary: Sherlock hasn't had a case in weeks. As you can imagine, he is very, very bored. A trip to Barts may be less boring, but it will prove to be a matter of life or death for hundreds of people, including John.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is my first actual story about Sherlock and John, and I'm not too sure about it, but I thought I had better have a go at it. Please review tell me what you think. Do not be afraid to be negative with me, Strong arming may be what I need. I hope you find it worth reading. :)

Sherlock sat in his chair, hands under his chin staring into space. His tea beside him had been cold for some time now. John sat reading the paper, enjoying the short time of silence he was getting after having to clean up one of Sherlock's experiments. "Sherlock, you can't just leave this mess all over the table." John had said tiredly, glancing at what looked like a swollen liver inside a plastic bag. "I don't mind it." he had replied in a bored tone. "Yeah, well you're not the only person living in this flat." said John sternly. "Mmm." "Excuse me?" "I'm coming back to it, John. For Gods sake, if it bothers you so much then move it." he had snapped and hadn't spoken since.

The headlines were dull. Celebrity crap and sports. Sherlock got up suddenly and marched into his bedroom. He returned a moment later with his coat on, tying his scarf around his neck. "I'm going to the morgue. Care to join me?" "Wha-why?" asked John looking up from his paper. "Bored. Molly may have some interesting autopsies. doubt it though. . ." ". . .er. . .fine. Let me get my jacket." Once outside, Sherlock hailed a cab and they ducked in. "Barts." sherlock said the cabbie. "How long has it been?" asked Sherlock as they pulled away.  
"You're going to need to be more specific." said John. Sherlock made a sound of annoyance. "A case, John. how long since I have had one?" "Hm. . . 'bout a month I'd say." he answered. Sherlock Sighed loudly, his fingers drumming on the seat. "Calm down Sherlock, you've been doing very well other than destroying the flat every now and then." said John. Sherlock ignored him. "Do you honestly want people to commit crimes?" Asked John. Sherlock didn't acknowledge him until they had reached Barts.

"Oh! Sherlock, John, I didn't know you were coming." Said Molly when they entered the lab. "You haven't been here in a while." "Hmm yes. I came to see if you had anything interesting to show me." Said Sherlock ignoring her comment.  
"Sorry. I don't think I have anything that would interest you at the moment." She said apologetically. "But if you like, you can have look around and see if we-what we missed." she added. Sherlock sighed and busied himself picking through files, having a look at a few bodies and the reports they were given while John got coffee at the hospital cafe. Johns phone buzzed.

Can you come to work tomorrow morning from seven to ten?  
- Sarah John thought this over and texted back.  
absolutely. see you then. "Who was that?" asked Sherlock without taking his eyes of a file. "Um, Sarah." "What time are you going in to work?" "How-er, seven." He answered. Sherlock motioned Molly over. "This man, was he a Magician?" He questioned. "Er, yeah actually. I think he had a real job, But the only thing I saw on his sheet was that he was a magician." she answered slowly. Sherlock nodded. "He indeed died of an appendix rupture. He failed to come to the hospital in time. Check his digestive system, I promise you will find something indigestible." He said. John set his phone down on the table and walked over. "How did you figure that out?" "Simple. The Appendix pictures here show that the rupture looks more strained, and the acid colour is brighter and therefore accumulated faster. Thus, Something indigestible was swallowed. Why would one do that? One wouldn't. Even normal people aren't that stupid. It was an accident, a careless accident. What kind of person would be more liable to have such an incident? Most likely a magician."Said Sherlock. John blinked. "Um. . .okay." He said shaking his head quickly. "I'm going to grab a coffee. Fancy one, either of you?" He asked. "Black." said Sherlock. "No I'm fine thank you." said Molly with a smile, as John walked out of the lab to the cafe upstairs. Sherlock rewrote the report on the magician. and began to pull out chemicals while Molly scheduled another autopsy for the man. They worked in silence for about ten minutes until Sherlock looked up from his microscope and stared at the door. "Something's wrong." He mumbled. "What?" asked Molly, looking over. "He isn't back." said Sherlock getting up. Molly was about to respond when loud voices and screaming could be heard faintly. Sherlock's eyes widened and he started for the door. He had almost reached it, but before he could grab the handle, all the lights shut off. 


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks to everyone who is now following this story, I'm delighted that it interests you. I want to apologise about the incredibly cramped text, and thank you for bearing with me. I hope I can fix the problem with this one. Last thing, a warning, the rating is going up to a T. _

John sighed at seeing the long line in front of the cafe. He hurried up before anyone else could line and waited. He sure hoped Lestrade would ask for Sherlock's assistance in a case soon, because he knew he was only going to get worse if he didn't. Even he was getting bored. Not really a nice thing to hope for, but John really didn't care to clean marinating organs off the table every day. Eventually, he reached the counter.

"What'll be sir?"

"Um, I'll take two large coffees, one cream, no sugar, and one black. Please." He mumbled.

As he stepped aside to wait for their coffees, something caught his eye. Through the small rectangular window on a hallway door, he thought he saw at least three men in black clothes pass by it. It didn't take a doctor to know hospital staff and patients don't wear black.

John froze and tried to make sense of it before saying anything. They could be visitors. They might be wearing black because of a deceased family member. John knew he was only fooling himself and groaned. He turned and ran quickly toward the the hallway to the front desk, almost knocking over several people in line.

He had just made it to the desk when four similar men in black clothes, carrying firearms, burst through the door in front of the desk and yelled,

"EVERYONE ON THE FLOOR!"

John wasn't quite visible to the men yet, and backed away to warn the many people in the cafeteria. The second he made it into the room the three men burst in through the door next to the cafe and yelled

"HANDS OH YOUR HEAD, GET ON THE GROUND!"

People screamed and ran from the men in terror, trying to find a safe exit. The men began to fire above their heads, making them more terrified. A bullet hit a power box and the light shut off, making it dim, as the only source of light came from the windows in the entryway.

"I SAID EVERYONE ON THE GROUND! HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!" one of them bellowed.

People started to lower to the ground, still screaming. John, heart threatening to burst out of his chest, knelt slowly and put his hand on the back of his head. He glanced around at people of all ages, elderly to children. John had been in this type of situation before, and seen men die, but this was very different. The man who yelled walked forward into the middle of the whimpering crowd of about two hundred. Screams could be heard upstairs now, and pounding feet. The men ignored this.

"Thank you." The man said, annoyed. "Now, everyone hand over your mobile phones. NOW!" He bellowed.

His two partners pulled out bags to collect their phones. John wondered if the people below in the morgue could hear all this, they probably could, but what could they possibly do? They were trapped.

"Hand over your phone." one of the men growled to him. John shook his head helpless.

"I don't have it." He said, remembering that he left it in the lab.

"I'm not stupid. give me your phone or be shot." He snarled. John patted his pockets to prove he didn't have it.

"I swear, I don't have it, you can check me." Said John his voice starting to shake slightly.

"No? Then where is it." He said in a quiet tone. John swallowed. If he told them, they might check and find Sherlock.

"I Ieft in in my office upstairs." He lied.

"You work here?" Asked the man, with a scoff, having a look at John's old jumper. John fumbled for his wallet and yanked out his ID card, holding it out for the man to see. He took it and squinted.

"Bah." he said tossing it behind him. "Get with the others," He barked, pointing to the rest of the people who were being tied up and sitting, backs against the wall. .

John got up and slowly walked over, hand on his head still. He was about to be bound when the man who was obviously the leader told him to wait.

"You, come here." He snapped. John groaned inwardly. Not again. But he was surprised when the leader handed him a cell phone.

"You, right now. Call the police." 


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thanks again to everyone following this. I'm glad you like this story :) I know my chapters are very short, but I'm incredibly impatient. I'm currently looking for a beta, 'cause I'm pretty hopeless when it comes to correcting my writing. if anyone is available, or know someone who would be willing, please PM me. Thanks!**

Sherlock stood stock still. Molly yelped and knocked something over.

"John." he whispered, his voice full of horror.

They could hear people in the morgue stumbling about in the dark.

"Molly, do have a torch?" demanded Sherlock.

"Yeah, I have a couple on a drawer, hang on." she replied. The fear she was hiding was completely obvious to Sherlock. He heard her fumble with things and heard something crash and break. Molly groaned. She rustled with things for about a minute before uttering a sound of triumph and clicking her light on. She quickly walked over to Sherlock and handed him a torch.

"Sorry." She mumbled. Sherlock took it. "Honestly, you don't know your own lab." he said. They walked out and found about forty people in lab coats,all grouped in the darkened morgue, all talking nervously.

"Everyone listen." Said Sherlock loudly. They ignored him. Sherlock took a deep breath.

"SHUT UP!" He boomed, shining his torch in their eyes. Everyone stopped talking and looked over, shielding their eyes.

"I need to send a text." he explained and pulled out his mobile and sent a text to Lestrade

Barts. Entire squad. Now.  
-SH

Sherlock looked up at the confused crowd. "Thank you. Now, please tell me if there are security cameras down here."

"Yeah, there are some we use when-" began a doctor.

"Where are they?" asked Sherlock. "more importantly, who is paid to sit in front of them?" A young doctor with scruffy blonde hair raised his hand.

"Lets get going then, shall we. Molly, please direct this lot to a room and plainly explain the situation, and answer any stupid questions they have."

"What is the situation?" she asked helplessly.

"Come Molly, you aren't as hopeless as that." commented Sherlock following the young doctor. His name was JOSEPH according to his name tag.

"Here they are." said Joseph as they entered a small room with four different screens. Sherlock sat down before them and began typing.

"Joseph, do you have a wrist watch?"

"Yeah, Its about-"

"What time did the lights go off?"

"I can't say for sure," He said slowly. "but I think it was about five to ten minutes ago."

"Not helpful at all." muttered Sherlock. Joseph was silent and stood behind him awkwardly, examining the dust on a shelf.

Sherlock pulled up all the camera images from five-to-ten minutes ago. Sherlock scanned them. At last he found one that showed John. He was quickly leaving the cafeteria. He looked through more and found several that showed men in black hoods. Sherlock made a small sound of triumph. when he found one that showed the face of one of them quite plainly.

"Well, They aren't too worried about their identity, so they can't be from around here at least." he muttered. He pulled up a few more. Joseph heard a sharp intake of breath and turned around. There was an image of John, being threatened with a gun.

Sherlock stood up so quickly the chair fell over, and walked quickly into the lab. John's phone lay on the table by his report. Sherlock cursed and kicked table so hard that most of the tools on it clattered down to the ground.

His phone rang and he regained his composure.

"Sherlock Holmes." he said.

_"Sherlock, where are you?"_ demanded Lestrade's voice.

"Molly and I are in the morgue, I assume you know what's happened. Now, I need you to-"

_"Hang on Sherlock, They just called me-John called me."_ said Lestrade quickly. Sherlock closed his eyes, relief spreading through him.

"What do they want?" asked Sherlock.

_"What'd you think? Drugs. They have about everyone there hostage, how are they not searching the morgue?_"

"Not important. I need you to give me the number that called you."

_"It was blocked, sorry Sherlock."_ he answered. Sherlock hung up and dialed another number.

_"Yes?"_ came the voice of his brother.

"Mycroft, I need the number of the phone that called Lestrade moments ago. Now." said Sherlock sharply.

_"I'm not sure what-"_

"Mycroft!" shouted Sherlock. "I honestly don't have time for this, There are hundreds of people here, give me the number!" Mycroft sighed.

_"Right away."_


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Sorry this took so long! I wan't happy with it for a while, and then had some trouble with my Docs. Still getting used to it. :/ Hopefully this will be easier to read thanks to johnsarmylady who was very kind and found the time to beta this story. I hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

John pressed speakerphone as ordered, as Lestrade's phone rang. The leader of the gang was watching him carefully.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade." He answered casually.

John glanced at the man.

"I-um, listen. . ."

"Is that you, John?" the Detective Inspector asked.

The man's eyes widened on hearing this, but didn't make a sound.

"Yes. I need you to listen, and I need you to not interrupt me." said John.

"What's going on? Where are you?" asked Lestrade, his voice sounding concerned.

John looked toward his captor for instruction.

"We have everyone at Bart's held hostage." whispered the man to him.

"There are men here, at Barts. They have us all hostage. . ." began John.

Still whispering, the leader added "Money and other valuables a hospital has to offer."

"They want money. . . and drugs." said John.

"What are you – John, how many are there?" he asked.

The leader shook his head at John.

"I can't tell you. They want you to meet their needs." said John, his voice voice was starting to waver slightly.

The man mouthed. "One person per hour."

"Every hour, one person dies." John repeated into the phone. On command, John hung up. The other two men grabbed his wrists and bound them behind his back, gagged him, and shoved him against the wall with the other captives.

John hung his head and tried to control his breathing.

How would Sherlock get out? He was just as trapped as he himself was. There were lots of people down there. Did the men even know there was a morgue? Surely they did. This was all so confusing.

He looked at all the people lined up along the walls and for a moment thought of his days in the military, seeing things like this all the time. But this was different; these were civilians, not enemy soldiers. They were men, women, and children. John leaned his head against the wall and prayed that Sherlock had a plan. What was he thinking? Sherlock always had a plan. John tried to hang onto this little hope as he waited for the police.

Police sirens could be heard soon. John's head snapped up. He could see the lights flashing through the glass doors.

It was just beginning.

The leader walked over and grabbed a young woman by the arm and yanked her up. She was whimpering loudly, but it was muffled by the gag. He walked over to the door, a gun pointed at her side.

One other man pulled Johns gag down sharply and pulled him up, following the leader to the glass doors.

John saw many police cars scattered out before the hospital, including a special armed response team wielding their guns behind their vehicles.

Lestrade was among them, John saw. He was looking directly at him, shock on his features. It was a lot different to the kind he when faced with Sherlock's rapid-fire deductions. John just lowered his gaze.

The leader looked at him.

"Tell them we will kill her unless we get seven hundred pounds within the next hour." he growled. John swallowed.

A man released his hands and shoved the phone into them, the number already dialled. Lestrade picked it up immediately.

"What do they say, John?" he asked.

"Seven hundred pounds, they want it within the next hour, or this woman gets shot, Greg." said John, allowing himself to sound scared.

"Okay, okay, will he let me talk to him?" asked Lestrade, sounding a bit nervous. The leader made a slashing motion across his throat and John hung up. John saw Lestrade swear in frustration, kicking a car tyre.

John was shoved into a corner a few feet behind them, guarded by three of the men. John strained to see out the doors.

Lestrade was on his phone again, He leaned leaning against the wall.

It was a terrible feeling, to know that there is nothing you can do about a situation, like a fish on a line. It was a feeling of utter hopelessness. Sherlock will have a plan, he John told himself, Sherlock had never failed him, ever. It was all John he could do just to stay composed.

A moment later, everyone jumped in surprise as the phone started ringing. The leader paused, thinking rapidly. The men grabbed John by the collar and pulled him up once more. He took the phone and held it to his ear.

"Yes?"

"John?"

"Sher…..I…. what do you want?"

"John, listen, you need to scare them, make their situation look hopeless. Lestrade will do his part. Never look scared, look troubled. This is most important: don't make them angry, they'll kill you." He said quickly.

John blinked.

"But no pressure?" he said weakly.

Sherlock sighed, sounding stressed. The leader cupped a hand at his ear. John had no choice. He turned on speakerphone.

"Sherlock, I'll do what I have to, nothing more." He said. The leader looked very _angry_ at this.

"John! Listen! You know that I-"

The Leader grabbed the phone and hurled it to the ground, and it broke. He turned on John, his gun coming down hard on John's head.


	5. Chapter 5

Lestrade's eyes widened in horror, as John collapsed to the floor.

The Leader fired his gun and pulled the young woman to him, she was guaranteed death – she would bleed to death!

Lestrade closed his phone and ran a shaky hand through his grey hair. The men didn't have time to waste, so neither did he…

* * *

Sherlock let his arm fall limp. His face didn't show it, but he felt shock. His thoughts turned to his friend. John could be such an idiot – did he really not trust him? How could he be so daft, didn't he want to stay alive? Sherlock sighed internally; being mad at John wasn't going to save him. A moment later Molly came in; her flashlight in hand.

"Um, I just wanted to ask…"

"Not now, Molly, I need to think. Please leave" He said, turning to sit down in a chair.

"But I want to know what's going on." Molly continued.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone.

"I just thought if I knew then I. . .I might…"

"I assure you there is nothing you could do to help the situation, Molly." he said, not taking his eyes off of his phone.

People were always asking Molly how she put up with him, or why she put up with him. In their minds it was impossible to stay patient with him, yet she did. Molly remembered this and took a deep breath.

"I know how you could get out, if that's what you need." she said quietly. Sherlock looked up at her.

"What?"

"I know how…"

"Never mind, I heard you. What do you mean?"

"There's ledge, on the fourth floor. It wraps around to the side where there's a fire escape." Molly explained patiently.

Sherlock stared in thought for a moment.

"Of course, you might get caught, so maybe it isn't a good idea." she said quickly.

Sherlock shook his head.

"No, no it might work. Besides, I'm of no use down here. How would we get out?"

"There's a staircase, near the smaller lab, where you can climb right to the fourth floor."Molly indicated a door, through which the stairs could be seen.

Sherlock pocketed his phone and without hesitation, made his way towards the exit. He paused in the doorway and looked back at the pathologist.

"Molly . . . I'm sorry." he said after a moment.

"Oh, don't, it's quite alright." she replied shyly.

"No. I have treated you unfairly,"he admitted "and for that I am truly sorry. Now, keep everyone quiet." He gave her a brief nod then left the room.

Molly blinked in amazement – Sherlock Holmes apologized to her! Shaking off her bewilderment, she turned back to the room and all her fellow workers.

"Alright, things are in motion, what's important is that we stay calm and quiet." she told everyone. The staff gave no response, other than a few nods, so she sat down on the floor with them, feeling slightly awkwardly, as they were all staring at her. After a few minutes her flashlight went off and they sat in complete darkness.

"Sorry, I don't have any more." she explained. So they waited in the dark, unable even to keep track of the passing time, so they had been lulled into a false sense of security, until, suddenly, everyone jumped. They could hear guns firing and screams again…..loud screams….

* * *

**A/N: Sorry this was so short! It was kind of a filler, I almost just added it to the next chapter, but I decided I could stretch this one. Hope you liked it!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Sorry for the wait again! I hadn't planned on that. I've just watched the Downton Abbey Season 3 Christmas special and was (And still am) suffering the emotional trauma. Not sure how many of you can sympathize.**

* * *

John woke to the sound of men's voices and people screaming. He pulled himself up. There was a deep cut running down the side of his head, still bleeding.

His heart stopped when he saw the young woman, lying dead in pool of blood, just two feet away from where he sat. Some of her blood had been soaked up by his own jumper, but John couldn't afford to let himself worry about this now. Something had gone wrong, for the police or the criminals, he wasn't sure.

Realising that there was no guard watching over him, John got up, and walked crept back toward the cafeteria, and carefully peered around the corner. One of the men had his back to him, blocking preventing the captives from escaping. People were screaming and cowering against the walls, as the seven men shouted threats. He noticed that the crowd was reduced greatly, only about a third of them were left.

John's eyes travelled over the ground, counting the dead and dying. There were between eight to a dozen people that he could see. The one closest to him was a young man, a nurse whom he knew very well from his work there. It took all of John's military training to force his thoughts to remain blank for the time being.

Moving away so that he wouldn't be seen, John's mind raced. What was going on? He glanced back at the glass doors. There were a lot of people out there who had escaped, just standing among the police cars. How? He could just walk out. Go home and make a cup of tea. He could turn around, run to the police, and be safe.

Nope.

John turned, grabbed a vase off the visitor's desk and dumped the roses into a nearby bin. He hurried back around the corner, and without hesitation smashed it over the man's head. The gunman collapsed, and John snatched up his gun.

He fired three times, and three men fell dead before the gang had a chance to react and retaliate. John ducked and fired again. The leader cried out and fell to the ground. The three remaining men turned on him, firing at random. John backed away quickly, but they continued to fire.

Were they idiots? They were going to run out of ammunition. John prayed they didn't have extra. There was a searing pain in his leg, but he ignored it as he dashed out and fired again. They fell dead within seconds. Now it was over, John began to pant, the pain in his leg returning with a vengeance, and he leaned against the wall to catch his breath. The hostages stopped screaming and looked at him, shocked, then they ran for the doors.

Amongst all this, he heard a pair of feet running towards him. Tightening his grip on his gun, John aimed it at the hallway. A man came bursting in, gun in hand. His eyes opened wide at the sight of John and he lowered his gun.

"Sherlock." said John with relief, sinking to the floor. Sherlock raced over.

"John! Are you alright?" he demanded, kneeling and looking him in the eye. Sherlock himself seemed unharmed, other than a three inch long cut on his cheekbone, a deep one too.

"John, can you hear me? Are you okay?" he demanded.

Some of the hostages were still struggling to get up and run to the door, others were sobbing over a dead body.

"Better than some." John said quietly. Sherlock ducked under John's arm and helped him up.

"Let's get you to a different hospital." Sherlock said. He helped John walk out. John tripped on the outstretched arm of the dead woman and he looked down at her, catching a glimpse of the blood running down his knee, and finally let himself register his thoughts toward witnessing all those innocent people murdered. And it paralyzed him.

"What's wrong John?" asked Sherlock, alarmed

"B-bloody hell," John stammered in the most pained voice Sherlock had ever heard. "bloody hell, Sherlock."

"I know John, but you have to walk, okay?"

At the sight of them, the armed forces rushed past them and into the hospital. Lestrade watched as Sherlock walked over, shouldering a blood-splattered John Watson. Lestrade rushed up to help him, ducking under Johns other arm.

"Oh my god." he mumbled, but didn't ask anything or say anything. John didn't cry out once from his wound, but then, he had been shot before. This time, it was in the lower thigh, near his knee. When he was taken by the paramedics, Sherlock sat down, panting. He didn't have a drop of blood on him but he was bruised and scratched up pretty good. Lestrade didn't want to bother him but had to ask:

"What the hell happened?"

* * *

John was miserable. It had been two days since the attack, and he hadn't had a single visitor to take his mind off of his ordeal. So it was constantly flooded with images of people bleeding to death, of fatherless or motherless children.

Shakily sipping coffee, thought about reading the paper.

ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S HOSPITAL TRAGEDY: THE INSIDE STORY

John sighed and set in on the table next to his flowers, sent presumably by Mrs Hudson while they were getting the bullet out of his leg. He hadn't seen Sherlock since the attack and was getting tired of waiting for him to turn up. All he'd received were a few texts. On the bright side, his leg was healing perfectly, and they thought that he ought to be discharged soon.

A nurse walked in and announced the arrival of an actual visitor. Sarah entered the room and sat down in the chair next to him.

"How are you? I heard everything from Sherlock. It's was a terrible thing to happen, and I'm so glad you're okay." she said her voice breaking with an emotion John never thought to hear.

"I'm just fine. You know, I probably should have told you I wasn't coming in. . . yesterday." He said with a smile. Sarah laughed.

"Oh please, don't worry, we have people line up for that." She stated.

Sarah and John talked for a while; she asked him about the very vague coverage of his experience that he had posted his blog, He'd posted what he had experienced (vaguely) on his blog, and he told her that he thought if he wrote it, would relieve help him of deal with the shock that lived within him, but it only worsened. There had been far too many responses to read, much less, respond back to.

They kept up a steady conversation, until a nurse announced the arrival of Sherlock. He immediately looked disapproving of Sarah's presence, she smiled and took the hint.

"Well, I'd better go now, business to sort out." she said standing.

John nodded.

"See you soon." he said.

Once Sarah was gone, Sherlock sat down.

"How are you John?"

"Oh don't trouble yourself." said John sarcastically, feeling a little hurt that his friend hadn't been to see him sooner.

"Sorry, John. I also had business to sort out." He explained, sitting in the chair next to the bed. John noticed that the deep cut on Sherlock's cheek bone hadn't been stitched up.

"Sherlock, that could get infected!" said John sternly.

"Lestrade made someone clean it for me." Sherlock reassured him.

"That's not enough to stop infection, Sherlock."

"I'll be fine. I'm not thrilled at the idea of wasting that much time just to stitch up my face.

"You'll have scar there for life!" said John, incredulous at Sherlock's lack of concern.

"What's it to you John? It's not your face, why do you care?" asked Sherlock. John blinked.

"I. . .I just thought that, um. . .never mind." mumbled John awkwardly. Sherlock looked momentarily confused, but changed the subject.

"I do hope your leg is healing fine." he asked.

John nodded.

"I should be out soon. Or not, You never can tell it seems." he commented with a half-smile."On the other hand you won't be bored for a while, I hear one of them got away. But then, I suppose there are a lot of people who won't be be able to be bored any more." he added with a heavy sigh.

Sherlock looked at the ground.

"Thirty-two people dead. Seven injured." mumbled Sherlock.

John looked up.

"You're joking."

"You think even I would…never mind. Didn't you read the paper?"

"Didn't want to." John replied.

Sherlock nodded and continued to study the ground.

"So, are you going to start explaining?" asked John.

Sherlock didn't seem to hear him.

"Do I seriously have to ask you?" said John, confused at his silence.

Sherlock looked up, there was pain in his eyes.

"It was my fault John." he said softly "Thirty-two people died because of me."


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock looked down at the ledge. It was about a foot wide, but it'd still be quite dangerous. Climbing through the window of the small office room on the fourth floor,Sherlock landed softly on the ledge. He backed up against the building and sidled slowly along the side.

He was very close to the next side of the building, but it was slow process due to his being quite cautious, and to the fact he had to peek into every window before moving onward. Five minutes into his journey, he actually saw a man's back and ducked down so quickly he almost lost his balance.

Painfully sliding down into an awkward crouched position, he continued forward until he was two windows away. This happened about several more times before he finally made it to the other side. At last he spotted the fire escape and moving with more haste than before, he grasped the side of the fire escape and clambered up.

Allowing himself to take a few deep breaths, he straightened up and he made his way quickly down the fire escape.

Just as he made it to the third floor, he saw something. A window was open, and on the windowsill, was a handgun. Sherlock ignored this, seeing as it would not help him, but a man was looking at him through the window now. He was gagged, with hands bound behind him, and he looked shocked at first, but then a look of pleading played across his features.

Sherlock stared back, thinking what to do. The man nudged the person next to him and they too saw him and looked hopeful. Sherlock swallowed and leaned in through the window.

No captor was in sight, just people lined up along every wall. Sherlock pulled himself through and grabbed the handgun. He walked over to the man who had spotted him and pulled off his gag and unbound him.

"Don't make a sound." Sherlock hissed.

The man nodded and began to untie any children he could find. Sherlock helped a little boy through the window onto the fire escape, then reached for the next child. The crowd disappeared out the window slowly, but quietly. Soon, adults and elderly were passing through the window, and Sherlock had to open another one. It was a longer jump than the first one, but the younger people could manage. But of course, the inevitable happened, and the moment Sherlock dreaded finally came.

Footsteps.

People were obviously a little smarter than Sherlock thought, because the ones who had not climbed out of the window hurried away, moving down the hall as quietly as possible. Two men in black came around the corner, and reaching for their guns they fired at the remaining crowd, which was still about thirty people. Sherlock couldn't fire at them; there were too many people in his way, but that didn't last long.

At least ten people dropped to the ground in seconds. Sherlock moved forward and fired at the men. One fell to the ground, writhing in pain, the other moved out of the way and fired aimlessly. As Sherlock fired back at him, he took slow steps backwards, and zigzagged at random.

He had seen John do this in a similar situation.

He finally dropped to the ground, gasping. Sherlock turned to see about seventeen people lying dead on the floor, the rest were screaming and pushing their way out the windows. Sherlock couldn't get out that way. He moved down the hallway.

The first man he shot was gurgling, and choking on his own blood. Sherlock kicked him in the temple as hard as he could, leaving a dent. The man died instantly. The second man was clutching his chest and gasping, blood oozing through his fingers. Sherlock stood over him.

"How many of you are there?" He demanded. The man just closed his eyes and continued to gasp for breath. Sherlock knelt down and grabbed his shirt yanking him up and letting him fall down again. The man cried out.

"I said how many!" Sherlock roared. The man opened his mouth to speak, but coughed, splattering the consulting detective with blood droplets. He nudged the gunman roughly.

"Seventeen." The injured man choked. "There are seventeen of us."

"Seventeen men took over this entire hospital?" Sherlock repeated with doubt.

"I sw-*cough*-I swear it." the man assured him.

Satisfied Sherlock left him to bleed – he had no sympathy for them.

He reached the elevator and jammed the downward button and leaned against the side of the elevator and breathed deeply. As he passed the second floor, he could hear screaming. What had he done? If he'd just gotten to the police, he could have helped, he could have asked Mycroft for the money. But it was too late for that, John was right to do what he did.

People always say you don't have limits, but you do. Everyone does. He wasn't a hero; he should have done what he had to, and nothing more.

If John died because of him along with the others . . . Sherlock inhaled sharply and refused to consider this possibility.

The doors to the elevator opened, and the second they did, a bullet hit the wall next to him, right where he might've been standing if he wasn't so tired. Sherlock grasped his gun and fired at the man who had shot the wall. The captor fell dead this time.

Sherlock rushed out and followed the signs that said "CAFETERIA" Sherlock shot five more men before entering the cafeteria, four of which were clean shots to the head, one he had to slam against the wall with enough force to snap his neck.

When he entered, the first person he saw was John. John stood with blood dripping down his knee and on his jumper. He had a gun pointed at Sherlock's chest, but a look of relief and exhaustion spread across his face and he sunk to his knees.

"Sherlock."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Here's the last chapter. Its short, But I'm content with it and I hope you like it! Thank you all who followed this story, and thank you to everyone who left reviews, they were so encouraging and helpful. Please enjoy. - 98**

* * *

John set the groceries on the table with thud, and walked into the living room to find Sherlock typing rapidly on his laptop.

"I got the things you needed." John announced. Sherlock actually looked up.

"How are you John?"

"I. . .what?"

"I said, how are you? Didn't you hear me?"

"Um, yes. . .but. . . ." said John, confused .

Sherlock looked even more so.

"But what?" he demanded. "Can't I ask how you are without such an unnecessary reaction?"

John blinked, then shook his head quickly and gave a small smile.

"Fine, thank you. I got a text from Lestrade, he said Bart's is going to reopen this week." He replied.

Sherlock sighed and said sarcastically "Already? It's only been three months."

"Precautions, Sherlock. You should know that." said John taking a seat.

Sherlock stopped typing for a moment and tightened his jaw. John saw this and shook his head.

"I didn't mean it like that Sher-"

"It's fine." Sherlock interrupted quickly.

John sighed.

"No one blames you, you do know that?" asked John.

Sherlock pretended not to hear him.

"Sherlock-" began John in a stern tone

"I don't want to hear you lecture me about-"

"No, I'm sorry, but for once you're going to listen to me. What happened at Bart's was not your fault, and you know that. The people you saved might have died if you hadn't helped them, so move on and stop feeling sorry for yourself." said John with an air of finality.

Sherlock sighed and absentmindedly rubbed the scar on his cheek.

"Thank you." he mumbled finally

"What?"

"You right. I can't work like this."

"That's not what I was going for. . ." Confused, John was beginning to think they were each speaking in a different language

"I'm hungry. Lets grab dinner." Sherlock declared, standing up.

"You're. . .hungry?" John repeated slowly.

"I'll fetch my coat, and your wallet."

Sherlock left the room – John got up and followed him.

"Wait, I just got groceries."

"Those are for an experiment."

"Frozen waffles are for an experiment?" John said in bewilderment at his friends actions.

"Fine, but I'm still getting take out." said Sherlock. "What'd you like?"

"I dunno, would you text me the menu when you get there?" asked John. Sherlock nodded.

On his way out caught a glimpse of the scar along his cheek and thought of how John cared about him down to the smallest scratch and felt very thankful.

"Actually John . . . I think I'll call you."


End file.
